"Your mother is dead." I could hear him breathing on the other end of the phone like he'd run all the way across Manhattan just to tell me. He hadn't. It happened four days ago. I'd read about it in the newspaper long before my family saw fit to tell me.

"Why did you call me this morning?" I said, chipping at the plum polish on my nail.

"Your mother is dead," he repeated. Each word was pronounced with more space between than was necessary, as if I couldn't understand it otherwise. Though it was admittedly better than having to put up with his screaming.

"I know."

There was a pause. He was piecing something together, like the puzzles he used to assemble when I was young. He would scatter the pieces on the cleared dining room table according to size, shape and color, slowly working his way from the outside, in. I stole one of the center pieces once, knowing with pleasure that his puzzle would never be complete without it.

"The funeral is tomorrow at seven."

"In the morning?"

"Shut your fucking mouth!" Sure as a gun, the screaming. His voice rose though just as quickly shrunk back, and he took to hissing through his teeth like the stray cat I nearly ran over last summer with my car. He still hasn't forgiven me for it, even though I feed him every day as my penance. I pulled the phone away from my ear to dull the noise, confused as to why he would be so upset over such a reasonable question. "You just…" he continued. His voice trailed off and he sighed. "72 East 1st Street. She would have wanted you to come." The last sentence was muffled and rushed and I still don't know if he actually said it but I would like to believe so. Every time I replay it in my mind, the more I'm convinced it's what he said.

The frantic tone in his voice meant that he was scrambling to hang up the phone. "Hey, dad." I didn't even know what I was going to say, but I didn't want him to hang up just yet. "Hey dad," I repeated.

"What?"

"Trevor died. Two months ago."

More heavy breathing on his side of the line. I was starting to wonder if it was interference from his cell phone rather than his breathing. Or maybe he took up smoking again.

The receiver clicked and the sound of static silence rippled from the earpiece. I hung the phone up and wiped my fingers on my pants, still unsure if the funeral was in the morning or the evening. Seven o'clock is uncommitted. It goes both ways.

I hate phone booths. This one was like every other one I had been in: the clammy, stale air that ruminated inside the booth reeked, though instead of donning the common dirty hobo odor, this one was much more reminiscent of two dollar hooker and nauseating perfume. An uneven layer of condensation clung to the walls and if I were feeling a bit more festive, I would have written all over them with the tip of my finger. But my mom had just died (four days ago, I kept telling myself) so I let them be. Besides, this particular phone booth already had its share of defilement. Each side of glass was riddled with amateur graffiti and crude drawings: a penis, random names looping in bastardized cursive, 'Mike wuz here.' Mike is everywhere. In the corner, the words 'Fuck me,' were written in bold black marker, with the latter word crossed out and replaced with 'you,' which was also crossed out and replaced with 'God.'

I shrugged the accordion door to the side and stepped out, pulling gloves from the back pocket of my pants and thrusting them on in a single, practiced motion. I've never cared much for the cold, but then again, my fingers and toes are always cold no matter what the season. Bad circulation. It's in my genes.

Washington Square Park wasn't too far from there. I used to go there with Trevor on the weekends when he didn't have class and I wasn't working. I couldn't see the Hangman's Elm from the phone booth, but once I started in the direction of the park, it came into view. Just like I remembered it. It stood naked, lesser trees covering their master with barren, empty embraces. Decaying and ripped leaves lined the ice-ridden pathway, soggy and brown. It had been too long. I looked both ways down the street like my mom used to tell me and then crossed into the park, head bowed from the cold. The worn tread of my shoes scraped against the concrete as I walked lazily, rivaling the ravens' cackles from the branches. Otherwise it was quiet.

There were dead people beneath my feet; at least, that is what Trevor had told me once as he concealed a grin. He knew I loved macabre and horror shit.

"You're kidding," I said, kicking at the ground with the tip of my shoe in fascination then looking back up to him.

"Dead serious." He was.